


Blessed Iniquity

by Blessed_Iniquity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Forbidden Love, Infidelity, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blessed_Iniquity/pseuds/Blessed_Iniquity
Summary: Multi-ship drabbles & one-shots on the topic of infidelity.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Blessed Iniquity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/gifts).



> Much love to Lumos Lyra for her beta and alpha work!

He's late.

It isn't the first time, and it probably won't be the last time, but you are unnerved when the hands of the grandfather clock in your office strike five and there is no sign of him. He's late, and you are carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders today.

\---

As tight as the knot at the base of your throat gets when you think about it, this isn't what you pictured your life would be like. A Ministry job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports was a far cry from all the things you had pictured yourself doing at fifteen years old, but the position had been open, and you figured that you would eventually switch once you found a vocation that set your heart aflame post graduation. Your friends had been excited, though, and their excitement fueled yours. Quidditch was the Wizarding World's oldest and most respected pastime, and you were now at the center of it. You met famous people and introduced them to your friends, and it felt nice to know you were making them happy after the horrors you had all lived through. And you wanted that, didn't you? To see everyone smile again, to know the wounds were healing. You kept your job, and the doubts it brought, because at least they were happy.

You are good at what you do. It was expected. You've built your self esteem around excelling at everything you do. You take the praise they give you when you implement rules to ensure the safety of all players in stride, and shrug off the bitter remarks of the purists who think that women are too delicate to dictate what their precious blood sport should be. At the end of the day, everyone is happier and healthier for it. You have no regrets about your actions, and can fall asleep with a clean conscience. 

At least when it comes to your job.

\---

There are other things that trouble you. 

Like the fact that you found yourself in the Minister's office a year ago, saddled with a man you greatly disliked as your partner. It wasn't easy for you, but it was probably worse for him. You were quite certain that he resented you—hated, even—because of your history. Still, you graciously accepted Kingsley's offer, set on proving you were and had always been the bigger person. Hating him was easy. Forgiving him would be hard. 

You challenged yourself to do the latter.

\---

You didn't talk much at first, and when you did, it was always about work. Meetings, revisions, events, and schedules were the only common ground for the two of you. That changed, though you don't know when or how it happened. 

Days spent in the office dealing with stressful work situations somehow turned into afternoons spent musing about life. Talking about the past and the future—it all became the new normal at work. The mundane things you discussed were comforting. He commended your willingness to put up with people who had wronged you, you laureled the changes in his way of thinking. 

The chilly office air became warmer. Some days it felt like whatever had grown between you was your only source of comfort. 

And all had been good and well. 

Until four months ago, when you had stood before him as you were leaving the office and lifted your mouth to his.

\---

Fleeing was the right word for what you had done afterwards. You had arrived home with your heart in your throat, the scent of his cologne against your shirt, and the heat of his lips lingering on yours. 

You slept inside your personal office that night, afraid that your husband would recognize the guilt of what you had done in the tinge of color on your cheeks. Your actions didn't sink in until you awoke the next day, and the realization that you would have to confront your coworker about your actions made your pulse quicken. 

It had to be done, didn't it? You had to clarify why you had done it, and apologize. There had been whisky to celebrate a job well done, and maybe that had clouded your judgment. You were both married to other people. You needed to apologize for your blunder, even if you didn't quite understand the why behind it. 

\---

You square your shoulders once you enter the office and mentally prepare yourself for the conversation, but it never comes. 

You, however, do after he shuts the door behind him and kisses you until your knees are weak and your legs eagerly part for him.

\---

That had been four months ago. Four months, two weeks and three days, if you were being fastidious about it.

You felt bad. Of course you felt bad. You were raised better. You have morals. You have a husband, for Rowena's sake. You felt dirty and used, and you felt undeserving of the love your husband showered you with. 

It didn't stop you from doing it again, nearly every day of the week. At the end of the day you would clean yourself, readjust the collar of your shirt and trousers, and you would enter your home to greet your smiling husband. 

And it feels like a lie.

You try to convince yourself that this is normal, and the lingering aftereffects of trauma after a war, but you're not so sure. The guilt never leaves, but neither do you when your partner sneaks a kiss while you're on the elevator or does so much more when you're inside your office. 

You'll stop eventually, you think as you watch him pull the shirt over his shoulders, leaving his blond hair in disarray and exposing the pale skin of his chest. He has a wife, and they're talking about starting a family. 

You should probably do the same with Ron.

\---

He stops talking about his life, and it's a bloody relief. 

The last thing you want to do is feel cruel after you're done, and you rest beside him on the settee you've been using as a makeshift bed since kissing became something more than that. 

It feels better when the only sounds filling your office are moans, heavy breathing, and other sounds of delight.

Talking about the world that exists outside _this_ , outside _him_ , outside those closed oak doors, cheapens the moment. And you want to remember it this way when it finally ends. Happy, exhausted, and replete. That's how you want to think back on your time together. 

And thoughts are all you will have in a future not too distant from now. 

\---

He's acting strange. He's in the room with you during the day, hunched over documents and faded tomes, but his mind seems to be a universe away. You're afraid of prying, though you don't exactly know why. Something about this change is devastating to you. 

You quietly pen your resignation letter as he works just a few feet away, and ignore the stinging in your eyes as you imagine a future without your usual routine. 

He kisses your forehead and leaves early that night, adding insult to your already injured heart. 

It's not love, you tell yourself, it's change. You're simply uncertain, and nothing in life bothers you more than not knowing.

You quietly send the letter to the Minister, beg for his silence on the matter, and prepare for your departure in two weeks. 

You'll be okay. You always are.

\---

He's now ten minutes late, and you are Atlas. 

You shouldn't feel slighted, but it's your last day on the job, and you do. He owes you nothing, but being there when you only have an hour left doesn't feel like too much to ask.

He doesn't know this is the last time. He doesn't know you plan on talking to your husband about leaving the country. He doesn't know that a few months from now you will be holding the end result of your actions in your arms.

Your hands rest on your still-flat stomach, and you squeeze your eyes shut in preparation for what is about to inevitably happen tonight. 

Your mouth feels like a desert and light dances across your eyes when he finally enters the room and slowly closes the door behind him.

He's twenty minutes late, but he walks up to you and kisses you like he's been gone for two decades. He guides you to the settee, and you don't protest when he undresses you.

In the after, when all the noise has died down and the only trace of your actions is the sweat glistening on both of your skins, he heaves a heavy sigh.

"I finalized my divorce." He doesn't look at you when he says this, and this doesn't make you feel any better. "I sent in my resignation letter two weeks ago."

"I'm sorry to hear." You whisper, hoping that no more will be said, and you can both move on from the ruin you've brought upon yourselves. 

"I want you to do the same." He turns to look at you, and the shadows beneath his grey eyes have never been so prominent. "I need you to do the same. Please."

You don't ask why. You can only hope that you know what he seems to be implying. 

"Do you still want to be a father?" The weight on your shoulders doubles, but you need to hear the answer. 

His gaze lowers. Past your exposed chest, down your stomach, and stops as it reaches your navel. His hand falls on your abdomen, rests there, and spreads warmth down to where his child grows. 

He frowns. Frowns are never good. The weight on your shoulders is crushing you. 

"You don't have to be, if you don't want to." You quickly say, like saying that changes what will happen even if he refuses the offer. 

"Give him the divorce papers." He shifts to where his hand rested, and leaves the soft imprint of a kiss on your skin. "I'll have my people work on our marriage certificate. If things proceed quickly, we can be married by next month." 

And just like that, it no longer feels like you are holding the world on your shoulders. It's beside you, growing inside you, and resting neatly in the palm of your hands.


End file.
